


What Dire Offence

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry learns how to teach and discovers, along the way, that it's not the size of the desk nor the length of the robe that defines the measure of the man. Post-War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dire Offence

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
> What dire offence  
>  from am'rous causes springs,  
> What mighty  
> contests rise from trivial things.  
> — _The_  
>  Rape of the Lock.

  


  


**H** arry was now convinced that nothing—or, more to the point _no one_ —lived up to one's expectations, though he remembered thinking otherwise, once. It might just have been that his expectations, like the ceiling of his room under the stairs, were now rather low.

Returning to Hogwarts, Harry had found that the desks, though small, weren't _quite_ as small as he'd hoped they might be. Ron, after a recent visit on Ministry business, had droned on and on about just how odd it was to measure the doorways only to discover they weren't nearly as tall as he'd remembered. The average door frames were not quite seven feet, and Ron was now convinced he'd discovered the secret to Snape's outsized ability to inspire terror. Snape, Ron insisted, had been just over six feet, and very likely wore boots with an extra lift, though, Ron added hopefully, he would have shrunk at least a few inches by now.

Harry hadn't bothered to point out that it had only been ten years since they'd last seen the man, and Snape wasn't _that_ old, yet, was he? And Ron hadn't yet had the opportunity to test his thesis, as Snape was on sabbatical from teaching during Ron's visit and Minerva expected he'd be gone for half the year (and good riddance, according to Ron; Harry kept silent his feelings that it would almost have been reassuring to see him, though Harry couldn't have brought himself to say why.)

And now, Minerva expected him to teach. She'd ignored his protests that he didn't know how. But you _do_ , she'd said during their initial interview, handing him his tea and brooking no further arguments, so Harry had not bothered to point out that, when he was still a student, the other children had listened to him because they were afraid of Voldemort, and he'd been the only one to volunteer (or rather, to be volunteered) to stand out in front; so naturally, they had _followed_. Now, what was going to motivate them? Perhaps Snape, when he returned, could _scare_ them into listening.

Harry didn't even _like_ public speaking. People always twisted his words until he hardly recognized them, and in the end, there was really no point. They all made up their mind about him right off, and there was little he could do to change it.

Worse still, after sitting through his very first Sorting Hat ceremony in his new capacity, he was not at all convinced that he really _liked_ children any more than he liked reporters or bureaucrats. Or Snape, for that matter. 

It was quite different—viewing it all from the teacher's table. They were all so very _loud_ that he suddenly felt a small bit of empathy for Snape, because there were no spells one could safely perform to quiet them down, and though he could mute his own hearing, he certainly couldn't do it all the time or he wouldn't be able to hear their seemingly endless questions, most of which he found himself answering with, "Hang on. We'll get to that later, after we've covered the basics." 

The voice in his head that added, "Assuming you dunderheads manage to master them, which I highly doubt" sounded awfully familiar, and it was only with some effort that he kept them from slipping out of his own traitorous mouth. Not that the children would have heard him over the shifting in their seats and the rustling of parchment and the scratching of doodling quills—was that supposed to be _him_ with the owl-wings attached to his head? The upside-down drawing winked at him from the front row and he sighed heavily. How many points was that one worth? He'd forgotten to ask Minerva if there was a system in place (and he suspected there was, and that Snape had simply ignored it in favor of his own arbitrary accounting). Perhaps it was best to ignore it entirely—to just pretend he hadn't seen it (as he was already pretending not to notice their snotty noses and the way their swinging legs were forever kicking the desks out of alignment, row by row, centimeter by centimeter, as the day dragged on and on).

Most days, he kept silent, gripping his wand in his sleeve, reassured by its presence, and by the knowledge that it all _would_ end (only to begin again, that voice reminded him, sounding awfully smug about it).

Harry had always thought that Snape's voice, far more than his height, had been the real source of his power over them. It was that voice which had called out the final spell to finish off Voldemort, though Harry half-suspected that it had been his own casting that had done the trick, with Snape, being Snape, insisting on always getting in the very last word, even if no one was listening.

Ron, in response to his concerns about teaching, had advised, "When in doubt, _loom_ ," offering a demonstration, as if either of them could have forgotten. Harry had refrained from pointing out that only a first year Hufflepuff would find Ron intimidating, even in his Auror robes and with his wand out and ready, and Ron _towered_ over him. Hermione had laughed and said, "Nevermind, Harry. You'll see. It'll all work itself out" in that vague way she had, not quite meeting his eyes, and likely feeling guilty that she hadn't yet come up with any other career for which he was suited.

In point of fact, he'd _tried_ to loom, but had given up when he realized he first had to transfigure his desk to a smaller size to get any real effect. He also had to shorten the podium in his classroom and also the teaching robes he was given, which he was sure he'd already shortened once, but which kept tripping him up as he paced the front of the classroom. He was starting to suspect he was the victim of some prank, though all of it was too subtle to be a Weasley invention. Perhaps _he_ was the one prematurely shrinking with age.

After a month, he found he simply did not have it in him to even try to intimidate his charges, who all seemed terribly young now, and who made him feel terribly old; by day's end, his old Quidditch injury, where the broom had all but bisected him his last year in professional play, would ache, though that could have just been indigestion; pumpkin juice no longer seemed to agree with him.

_Nothing_ about Hogwarts seemed to agree with him. It was all just so  _hopeless_ . He was destined to a life of anticlimax, below-average height, and minimal menace. He was, in sum, a push-over and a has-been—or perhaps a never-was. He'd be nostalgic over his own childhood if, upon reflection, he hadn't realized that he'd  _hated_ most of it.

It was a wonder they took him seriously at all. Defence Against the Dark Arts.  
He couldn't even defend himself against a class of eleven year olds.

"I suggest you get good and drunk, find a suitable tower, and throw yourself off at the earliest opportunity. The position is cursed, after all. It wouldn't do to ruin such a hallowed tradition by continuing to live."

Harry kept his head on the desk, telling himself it was, like the other bad advice he'd been given lately, all in his head—delusions brought on by desperation and one too many cups of extra strong tea.

"Naturally, I would offer to assist, assuming that such a simple act is beyond you to orchestrate, but I think the irony would steal some of the joy I might otherwise find at seeing you fall."

At that, Harry lifted his head just a little, wincing at the piercing ache between his temples that he could no longer blame on Voldemort. "You're on sabbatical," he mumbled in lieu of "You killed Dumbledore." The latter accusation no longer had the same sting it once did since the bastard had forced Harry to testify on his behalf at a trial Snape had _insisted_ the Wizengamot hold "so as to ensure that the facts were known to all." Of course, by the end of his trial, Snape had managed to insult the intelligence and parentage of nearly everyone present and had very nearly goaded the Wizengamot into finding him guilty in _spite_ of the evidence in his favour.

"The Sabbatum ended a bit earlier than planned due to an... unfortunate accident."

"Who'd you kill _this_ time?" Harry managed when the silence grew deep enough he imagined he could hear Snape's robes flapping like bats' wings behind him.

" _Whom_ did I kill. And as you know none of the participants, the better question would be whether he deserved his fate."

Harry tried very hard not to smile at that as he sat up and turned around in his chair, getting a good look at Snape, who was, naturally, looming in the doorway as if he hadn't yet decided to commit to coming inside. Oddly enough, Harry felt very little fear for the first time all week. "Oh, I've no doubt he deserved it. You do have a reputation for fairness to uphold, after all."

Snape inclined his head in agreement and Harry thought that Snape—despite Ron's predictions—looked about as he expected after all this time. Still tall, and older, certainly, but otherwise, still recognizably Snape-ish. His hair hung as it always had, shiny and flat, except where it tipped up at the ends, as if trying, and failing, to curl. The effect was heightened as it was a bit shorter now, just barely coming to Snape's chin. And it was still black. Harry himself had, to his alarum, found two grey hairs last year and had discovered, through looking at family photos, that he should be thankful if he ended up keeping all his hair at all through non-magical means.

Perhaps it wasn't naturally black at all, Harry considered, though if Snape were going to bother to change the colour, why not make it look _better_ in the process? 

Snape took a step into the room and Harry watched the sway of his robe, trying and failing to determine whether his boots added height, and then he looked up from all that blackness to notice what should have been obvious. Snape had put on some weight. His face had lost some of its sharp, birdlike quality, despite the ever-present beak. No longer working two jobs, lying through his teeth, on the run. No longer rail-thin, Snape looked almost human. An unattractive human, but... comfortable, as if somewhere in all that bad temper, something had at last been settled.

"And just what is it you find so fascinating, Mister Potter?"

"I hate teaching," Harry responded, realizing it was not quite an answer only when Snape's eyebrow raised and his mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. 

"Does anyone really _enjoy_ teaching?" Snape drawled.

Harry sighed. He did find it difficult to imagine, though why do it otherwise? "It certainly doesn't pay as well as...."

"Heroism?" Snape shot back, with a sneer that was strangely reassuring. Not _too_ comfortable, then.

Snape did have a point. Killing Voldemort had surprisingly few compensations beyond the obvious elimination of evil, and there _were_ bills to pay. The Potter inheritance that had once seemed like a treasure to a boy parceling it out in terms of how much candy it would buy turned out to be limited after all. And though Quidditch allowed him a good income, he'd known from the start it would only last a few years, so he'd put most of it away or invested. 

He needed to have something to _do_ besides watch his interest accrue at Gringotts. Hence, he was here—the path of least resistance. It had seemed easiest, somehow, after resisting nearly everything for far too long. He could almost understand why Snape had come to Hogwarts, no longer tied to Voldemort, no longer _having_ to spy on him or for him, or to teach, and apparently hating both, but coming here nonetheless. A lot of things made sense now that once didn't, none of them he could share with Snape.

Snape, seemingly done with him, had turned and walked past him to the teapot, and Harry took a moment to marvel at the relative mildness of their conversation so far. Only one death threat. It was as if Snape was taking him seriously as... an adult? A colleague? A terrifying possibility, in either case.

And once he got his tea, Snape would leave and Harry would be alone again with his thoughts, which was more terrifying, still.

But did he risk trying to engage the man in conversation when he knew that it would very likely start a fight he couldn't win? The answer was, clearly, yes, as he was speaking even as he was still trying to talk himself out of it.

"So _Severus_ , do you have any suggestions that do _not_ involve my imminent death? And why do _you_ keep doing this if you hate it so much _?" Severed. Severe. Severus_. _See Severus sneer._ He'd practiced saying it in the mirror until he was sure it would come out without a stutter or pause, until it fairly rolled off his tongue, sibilant, like Parseltongue, and he'd been waiting for an opportunity to test it out on the man himself. 

Snape's shoulders came up, tensing at the sound of his given name, and he turned slowly from the tea table, lifting his steaming cup to his lips and taking a small, carefully timed sip before speaking. "Precisely what choice do you suppose I have, _Harry_? As much as I despise conversing with you, I do not believe I can avoid doing so for the rest of the term. Minerva would disapprove, I'm sure."

Harry opened his mouth and then shut it again, reminding himself that, though Snape had killed Dumbledore (and though Harry recognized the extenuating circumstances), _Severus_ could be someone else—a fresh start. There was powerful magic in a name, and he'd never been one to say, "You Know Who."

He'd considered taking on a new name himself, though he had never been able to settle on anything else but Harry—a lack of imagination on his part, Severus would likely say, and he would be right. For exactly one year, he'd tried out Harold, but it didn't take, as Ron and Hermione had snickered everytime they said it, until finally he'd given up. Harry or not, the name didn't matter. He sometimes didn't recognize himself in the mirror now, though he couldn't say just who he _did_ see, or what he thought of the man.

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part, to imagine that Snape by any other name could be anyone but Snape—a thorn without the rose.

Severus took another sip of tea—and strange how dangerous he could seemeven doing that. His eyes narrowed as he spoke. "You were, I suppose, hoping for assistance with _teaching_?" He said the word as if it was a killing curse, and perhaps it was.  


Severus might know _something_ after all these years of torturing students and other people. If not, Harry really was going to petition to be set free of his contract. Being free of Severus Snape would be a bonus.

Harry took a drink of his tea and nodded.

"You might try stripping the little buggers naked."

"I— what?" Lukewarm tea sloshed onto his hand and up his sleeve as he overtipped his cup, and he wiped his wet hand on his robes, then set the cup down on the table.

"Stage fright, Mister Potter. You have heard of it? I don't suppose visualisation would be of any use with the youngest of them, who run naked through the halls often enough that it hardly bears imagining. Though it can be quite entertaining with the eldest."

"You— that's—" Harry sputtered and blushed, and then Severus _laughed—_ a strangely pleasant sound, though it was at Harry's expense.

"Is there really no evil you think me incapable of, _Harry_?"

"You ended that with a preposition, _Severus."_

Severus set down his own cup with a clatter and frowned. "Am I to understand that you would prefer a proposition?"

"I—a what?"

"I will observe your classes this term and offer you commentary on your performance, after which point, we may revisit the option of the tower." 

When he didn't respond, Severus added, "I believe Minerva made a similar suggestion. If you would prefer, I am quite sure she would be pleased to observe, though I suspect she would not be willing to help you end it all."

Severus was staring at him with narrowed eyes, and he stalled for time, trying to think up a good reason this was a bad idea, besides the obvious. He'd put Minerva off at once, saying he wanted to get more of a feel for things first. So had they discussed the matter between them and had Minerva palmed him off on Severus?

To choose her at this point would be to back down, to turn tail and run, to acknowledge that he was afraid of the man who was, after all, now a colleague. Did he have any choice?

"By commentary, I take it you mean to offer constructive criticism on my technique?"

Severus' expression shifted—a small twitch of his lips that was quickly hidden by his cup. "Constructive... Is there any other kind?"

It had not been a particularly warm smile, though it had touched Severus' beady eyes, causing them to narrow further and all but disappear. But then it was gone too quickly for Harry to comment, as if Severus' face could not sustain a kind expression for any length of time. Harry was left staring into dark eyes that seemed to study him and, as usual, find him wanting.

And then Severus was gone in a sweep of robes, leaving his empty teacup on the table. Harry reached out and traced the edge of it, where Severus had touched it to his lips, examining the leaves and realising that Trelawny had absolutely failed him, as he had no idea what to make of it.

He was home.

  


* * *

 

"You favor the right."

"As opposed to the _wrong_?"

"As opposed to the _left_ , Mister Potter."

"Harry," he corrected, not at all sure it would take, or why he even bothered, except on principle.

_Severus_ had appeared just after the last child left the room, stepping out of the shadows and walking to the front of the classroom, somehow seeming to bring the shadows  _with_ him.

"It is a common problem, _Harry_ , easily remedied by turning slightly, thus." Severus illustrated with a swift turn on one foot, so that he faced the left side of the room, his wand drawn out, though Severus did not seem to have noticed he'd taken a stance best suited to a duel. Harry had a sudden vision of the children on that side of the room quaking in their chairs, with the ones on the left visibly relieved.

Perhaps Severus was not the best person to be instructing him in teaching. It wasn't as if he'd ever thought Severus was any _good_ at it. Then again, Harry was alive. That had to count for something.

"I won't be able to see the right side of the classroom if I turn, _thus_ ," Harry pointed out, taking out his own wand and tapping it gently against Severus' own.

Severus frowned and drew his wand back into his robes. "They do not _know_ that you cannot see inside their very _heads_ , _Harry_. Stop thinking like a student and start thinking like a—"

"Death Eater?" Harry offered.

" _Professor_ ," Severus clarified, lifting up his arm and pulling his sleeve up, so that Harry got a good, long look at the unmarred skin on the inside of his forearm, a shocking, bloodless white against all that black cloth. Harry was close enough to reach out and touch the skin there, and was tempted, just to see if it was as smooth as it looked, as smooth as his own forehead had become after Voldemort had finally gone.

"So your advice is that I frighten them into submission while imagining them nude." Harry looked away and put on his best intimidating face, thrusting his wand out and pointing it at an imaginary naked child in the front row. "Fifty points from Gryffindor, Mister Potter," Harry growled at the empty seat, lowering his voice as much as he was able and doing a passable imitation of Snape at his worst. And then he shrugged and rocked back on his heels. "I somehow doubt I would succeed where you failed."

"I did not _fail_ , as you are still very much alive, Mister Potter."

"Am I?" That snappish voice had sounded so familiar that, for a moment, he had the uncanny sensation that he was talking to himself, and he regretted his response instantly, though Severus only rolled his eyes toward the ceiling with evident disdain and then kept staring up, causing Harry to look up as well. 

Hovering just below the rafters, in bright black ink, someone had spelled out a very unflattering caricature, complete with hair that was, he thought, far messier than his own, though the drawing was helpfully labeled, "Hairy." Beside it, there was a poem written in a neat hand.

  


> " _They say he murdered You Know Who—_  
>  _Or so the story goes._  
>  _And yet he cannot tie his shoes_  
>  _Without tripping on his robes."_

  


"AK the lot of them." Harry gripped his wand a bit more tightly, then forced himself to put it away and take a deep breath. 

Severus frowned. "I do not believe appalling meter is a death penalty offence. And the author does have a valid point."

Harry wondered what Severus might consider adequate justification for murder. He also wondered just how many days the rhyme had been there, hovering above him, unnoticed—or worse, noticed by everyone. It was one thing to have suffered abuse at the hands of the Dreaded Potions Master, and certainly he was well-used to such treatment by the Dursleys and the wizarding press. But even _he_ had his limits.

"I quit. And I don't want to hear that this confirms your low estimation of me, because—"

"My estimation of you was confirmed long ago, Mister Potter. And I would suggest that, prior to turning in your resignation and applying for another position for which you are better suited, you find yourself a competent tailor. Langley's Stitchery does above average work at a price even you will find acceptable on your apparently limited means."

Severus touched his robe and Harry nearly jumped away, but Severus merely shook the folds until the fraying hem released its coating of dust. The fabric had been dragging behind him all day.

Harry didn't bother pointing out that he'd grown up wearing ill-fitting cast-offs and that the children could go hang themselves, and Snape with them... though he _was_ beginning to be a bit self-conscious about his appearance now that he was being stared at all day. But the idea of taking fashion advice from _Snape_ was bloody ironic, and he almost said as much, then didn't. Apart from a glamour or plastic surgery (and wasn't _that_ a thought—Severus Snape putting his face in the care of a Muggle doctor?), there was little the man could do to improve upon what little Nature had seen clear to bestow upon him.

Severus lifted his wand up and, with a flick of his hand, erased the offensive graffiti, but instead of a bare ceiling, there was instead a flash bright enough to hurt his eyes and when he blinked again, he saw that the poem had been replaced by a very rough sketch of a bespectacled figure engaged in an unnatural—and likely uncomfortable—sexual act with another figure—this one far taller, with long black hair and.... Oh!

"Mine enemy's enemy," Severus muttered to himself so softly that Harry almost didn't catch it.

Harry flushed, shutting his eyes and half-hoping that he'd imagined it. But  
no—he opened his eyes and there it was, and as he watched, the image  
darkened a bit, becoming more finely detailed and showing quite a bit of  
misplaced artistic talent. Even the location of the buttons on the robes was  
spot-on—his own of the more modern design while the other wizard's robe  
(oh, the hell with it, it was _Snape's_  
robe, and there was no getting around it) had an old-fashioned full sweep of  
fabric and was buttoned up to the collar, though it was clearly _un_ buttoned from the waist down and... Harry bit his lower  
lip, not sure whether to laugh or cry, knowing only that something wanted to  
come out of his mouth that he would likely regret later. 

The artist thought Severus was rather well endowed, though the flesh and blood man hardly looked flattered. His face had taken on a rather pinched look and then suddenly went blank and flat, with only the thin line of his mouth indicating his rage. Someone was going to pay. 

Harry only realized he was backing away when the desk caught him at his back and there was nowhere left to go.

Severus waved his wand again, and this time the image disappeared, leaving the ceiling with only a blackened, sooty spot that, from the looks of things, satisfied Severus, though Harry would have to try to erase that as well later, as he knew he wouldn't be able to teach with that above him, reminding him....

"Slytherin," Severus announced, startling him.

"You're sure?" Harry whispered, knowing full well that Gryffindors weren't above that sort of thing, nor were Ravenclaw, though it was hard to imagine a Hufflepuff who'd have the nerve.

" _Quite_ ," Severus confirmed, his voice going hard, and Harry knew that if he really was sure, he very likely also knew specifically _which_ Slytherin to hold responsible. Though Severus _had_ always favored his own house, so— 

"One hundred points from Slytherin." Severus' voice registered all the way to the soles of Harry's feet, and he could imagine the House felt it as well.

He wondered what it felt like to take away that many points, and imagined it was very... satisfying. But it had not even occurred to him that it was within his power—and possibly his responsibility as this was his classroom—to deduct points from Severus' house.

"I could've taken—"

"And yet you did not," Severus snapped, and then leaned in closer—so close, in fact, that Harry felt the rough brush of his wool robes against the back of his hand and had to force himself not to pull away, the desk digging into his back now.

"I will see that those responsible come to understand the error of their ways and _you_ would do well to consider just how it came to be that your own students thought _this_ abomination would go unpunished."

"I—"

"And for Merlin's sake, do remember what you have never allowed the rest of us to forget: You are Harry Potter—"

"The boy who li—"

"The _man_ who killed Voldemort." Severus cut him off with a look that suggested he was torn between pity and disgust. Harry suddenly wondered if Severus had cast Legimilens on him, as he felt suddenly quite naked, despite his dusty robes.

He fought to keep from looking away, relieved when Severus broke eye contact, though Severus paused at the door to add, "Or so the story goes."

Harry would have said that it was about some other Harry Potter—one who had been too busy worrying about the scar he'd had from childhood to notice himself accumulating any new ones along the way. But Severus was gone.

And for the present—could he really bring himself to quit and give Severus the satisfaction of seeing the back of him at last?

  


* * *

  


They never spoke of it in the coming months, though at first, Harry was tempted to say _something_. But what, precisely, was there to say? When he and Ron and Hermione were students, they hadn't even considered the possibility that Severus Snape might _have_ a sex life, and it certainly wouldn't have occurred to them to depict the nasty git (or any other teacher at Hogwarts) playing hide the broomstick with another teacher—another _man_ (and nevermind how ridiculous it was to pair the _two_ of them, though perhaps that was the point. It _was_ ridiculous.). 

Of course, _if_ anyone in their year _had_ ever considered speculating on what was beneath Snape's robes (and here, he would be speaking strictly in the hypothetical, and he would never say such a thing out loud to anyone) he (or she, of course) certainly would never have been so brazen as to let anyone else know about it.

The safest course was clearly to pretend it had never happened, which might have been easier if he'd given in and just quit. But in the end, he couldn't do it, and Severus never did share the name of the guilty party, handling the whole thing with such discretion that even the more gossipy members of his House couldn't do more than speculate on who had cost Slytherin those points.

And, contrary to his expectation that Severus would do his best to avoid him, he and Severus continued to meet in the teacher's lounge several times a week, at first seemingly by chance, and then with intention (on his part, and he assumed that Severus could, if he liked, take his tea in his own laboratory or rooms). They said very little at first, unless Severus himself instigated conversation, or when Harry came upon a question about teaching and was desperate and thick-skinned enough to chance the inevitably sarcastic reply.

The silence when they didn't speak was never _comfortable_ , but it was livable—the silence of two people who knew well enough when to pretend the other wasn't there. And sometimes, someone else would join them, which happened more often as the rest of the faculty finally realized that he and the git could be in the room together without wands being drawn. Though aside from Minerva, Harry never felt quite at ease with the other faculty, all of whom spoke to him while staring at his forehead, as if they believed the scar would suddenly, magically, appear again. Though that might have been his own paranoia. Trelawny—who was more than a touch dotty to begin with—now seemed perpetually vague, as if the incense had done permanent damage. She seemed determined to not recognize him at all. And the only other new faculty member—the History of Magic professor Erastus Bond—was cool and aloof, resembling a Malfoy in more than his blond hair, though Harry made a point not to allow past prejudice to influence the present. Much.

On weekends, Harry traveled to Hogsmeade, usually drinking and shopping alone but always returning on Monday with something to share with the others. He was determined to win Erastus Bond over, if only because he was the only one even close to Harry's age. He'd heard the man complaining more than once about the overly sweet cakes served by the house elves, and so Harry took Alberta Dobrette's advice at the bakery and bought some Madeleines she ensured him were "very restrained"—unlike the chocolate volcano bundt cakes that spewed raspberry preserves at regular intervals.

But Erastus Bond didn't show at tea-time, and Harry was about to leave when Severus arrived in his usual foul mood following double potions, tearing in straight away with a story of student incompetence that Harry— had he not taught at Hogwarts himself—would have sworn was entirely embellished hyperbole. 

Each year, to hear Severus tell it, brought them a new Neville Longbottom, or, worse, some child who, like a time-delayed spell bomb, appeared normal until reaching spotty puberty, at which point they began to unleash magic alongside their other hormonal excesses. They'd already had one unfortunate Ravenclaw girl who seemed to have come into a great deal of power upon beginning her menses. After some research, Harry found such a thing was not without precedent, though given the way entire Houses seemed to synchronise, there had been a spate of broken noses in that House before they'd found a way to rein her in. At the time, Severus had observed that he found it difficult to tell which Ravenclaw girl was affected, given how intensely unpleasant they all were the third week of every month.

Harry sat back and listened as Severus detailed his discontent and, after a few moments, having apparently vented his considerable spleen and now flushed with renewed annoyance, Severus glanced down at the bakery box and then over at Harry.

"They're not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking."

"If you had put any effort at all into your studies, you would know precisely what I am thinking now."

"Legilimens." Harry said it softly, and Severus' eyes widened. He clearly hadn't expected Harry to actually attempt it. Harry could feel himself slip inside of Severus' head for just an instant, not long enough to do more than know that Severus was not displeased by his effort. And then Harry was shut out again, watching as Severus reached down and took a Madeleine from the box, chewing thoughtfully.

"You have improved," Severus said.

"You weren't expecting it."

"Perhaps," Severus admitted with a small nod. "But you _have_ improved. Though given your below average skills, that is not a ringing endorsement."

"I was never as bad as you liked to think."

"You were undisciplined."

"I was _young_ ," Harry pointed out. " _I_ got older and _you've_ gone soft." Harry knew he was goading Severus but found himself unable to stop. "I notice you've put on weight. Two stones or thereabouts?"

"Two and one half in the past ten _years_ , Mister Potter. I seem to remember you were, at one time, an impudent little brat. It is reassuring to know that even the passing of time hasn't changed you in the slightest." With a steady glare, Severus took a second biscuit from the box, looking it over carefully.

"It's _Harry_ —not Potter or Professor or Mister. And that one's not been poisoned either. At least not by me. Though it would serve you bloody right if it was."

"Harry, Harry, quite contrary, how does your garden—"

"Grow up."

"My, but you are the proverbial kettle today, _Harry_. May I presume you prefer Shakespeare to the Nursery?"

"I don't—"

But Severus was already speaking, leaving behind the sing-song voice in favor of a more serious tone.

> " _Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,_  
>  _Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?_  
>  _Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,_  
>  _And that your love taught it this alchemy,_  
>  _To make of monsters and things indigest_  
>  _Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,_  
>  _Creating every bad a perfect best,_  
>  _As fast as objects to his beams assemble?_  
>  _O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,_  
>  _And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:_  
>  _Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,_  
>  _And to his palate doth prepare the cup:_  
>  _If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin_  
>  _That mine eye loves it and doth first begin._  
> 

"It is a sonnet," Severus added.

"I know that," Harry said, though he knew no such thing. He was fairly certain that a sonnet was a poem, though Severus said it was Shakespeare, so it might be something theatrical. Either way, the words had gone by too quickly, spat out at him with his usual bile, and Harry couldn't say he understood even half of it. Hermione had once insisted that an appreciation of poetry was necessary for advanced spell composition, and she'd dragged him out to some Muggle performances that _might_ have been Shakespeare. He'd thought the men in stockings were interesting, and the sword fights had been quite good, though no one actually died. But as for the rest, he'd just never got it, and had quickly given up reading anything beyond the limerick.

His confusion must have been evident, as Severus rolled his eyes and said, in a more reasonable approximation of English, "One finds, Mister Potter, that food is far more pleasurable when one is not regularly eating death."

And with that, Severus took a bite of his biscuit, signaling the conversation was at an end.

Harry sighed, taking a biscuit for himself and walking to the window where he could see some children playing a game of hide and seek. They looked so innocent that it was hard, for a moment, to remember just why he sometimes still hated teaching.

It would have been easier had Severus not closed himself off, though perhaps it was for the best. He tried to remember even one of the lines Severus had recited, but could only remember words and phrases—flattery and poison and kings—all of it sounding vaguely insulting, and, for that reason alone, he didn't regret keeping to himself the thought that Severus looked... well, not _good_ , but better. _Content_ —if someone as fundamentally and deeply malcontent as Snape could ever be called that. But even that thought was ephemeral, and Harry turned back and made himself another cup of tea, boiling enough water to bring a cup to Severus, who, not unexpectedly, failed to say thank you, though Harry had made it sweet and strong, with just a touch of milk, exactly as he'd seen Severus take it before.

  


* * *

  


After that, Harry found himself looking in the bakery window for things Severus might like with his tea, feeling strange about it, though he told himself he was merely being polite, and that Minerva or the others would partake as well. And there was still the Erastus Bond Project, though he'd found himself growing less enthusiastic, deciding that the man just wasn't very interesting. He didn't even like Quidditch.

At times, Harry was hard pressed to find the time to leave the school, between teaching and watching over students who, in the absence of _real_ terror, seemed determined to discover new and inventive ways to fill their time in less than constructive ways. But when he managed it, it was a relief to have a reason to leave the school that didn't leave him wandering aimlessly, looking for a peace he never found.

The different Houses, which had long engaged in Quidditch as a means to vent their competitive spirit, had also turned to playing pranks and issuing dares which had begun innocently enough but, only two months into the term, had escalated and grown more difficult to control. Harry knew he was, in part, responsible for some of it, having both killed Voldemort _and_ invested in the Weasleys' venture. He was now considering demanding the Weasleys make a sizable donation to the school to compensate for a few of the recent disasters that could be traced directly back to their products. The subjects of at least five portraits were now objecting loudly to anyone who would listen that it was undignified and unpleasant to remain rolled up in the corner until someone figured out a way to restretch their canvases without them curling back up again and breaking free of the frames.

Nearly four months into the term, as the weather was beginning to turn from cold to bitter, Severus arrived at the lounge with snow dusting his shoulders, and with his hair frozen into what looked suspiciously like ringlets at the nape of his neck. His cheeks, flushed red from the cold, were in sharp contrast to his otherwise waxen pallor, and though Harry hadn't said a thing, Severus turned and glared at him and then proceeded to remove his cloak, shaking the snow off it directly onto Harry's newspaper.

Harry chewed on his lower lip and merely dabbed at the damp pages with his sleeve, muttering a drying spell. He reminded himself that he did not have a death wish, and so pointing out that Severus had all the grace of a wet dog would be a very bad idea, as it would very likely lead to Severus saying something nasty about Sirius, which would in turn result in Harry having to say something very nasty about Severus, after which point Severus would insult Harry's intelligence, and it would invariably end in one of them stomping off. And today, it would have to be Severus, as _he_ personally planned on enjoying his tea and what was left of his Quidditch scores before facing the interminable task of grading.

Granted, he could go to his office, or his room, but he found that after a few hours of the high-pitched chatter of children, it was a relief to speak to another adult, even an unnaturally surly one. 

He suspected Severus felt much the same way. And Harry had finally learnt to imagine the full run of one of their escalating battles in such vivid detail that actually saying any of it ceased to be necessary on his part, even if it was sometimes fun. He knew how it would all end, and it never _did_ end, and so what purpose did it really serve? 

It was a cold war—a rather snowy one today, in fact—except when Severus sometimes seemed to forget they were fighting it.

Sometimes, Harry was so bored that it was hard not to say _something_ to remind him.

"Cold out, isn't it?" Harry offered, keeping his voice mild, as Severus tended to react badly to what he termed "inane conversation best suited to house elves and imbeciles."

"It is," Severus said, shortly, finding yet more snow to deposit on his newspaper while tossing a small, damp, brown-wrapped parcel onto the table in front of Harry. Severus unbuttoned his robes and actually removed them as well, revealing a loose-fitting white shirt with billowy sleeves that were, even to Harry's eyes, at least a decade out of style, paired up with a pair of black wool trousers that were damp from the knees down. Harry at one time suspected Severus wore scratchy woolen underpants as well, which might account for some of his bad temper, though he'd never actually seen Severus in any state of undress. Not that he wanted to, of course.

Severus was looking at him oddly and Harry studied the package, and then gave in and ripped it open, deciding that he had spent far too long now dealing with pranks if he suspected Severus of having a sense of humor. He recognized the box and wondered what had led Severus to Muggle London on a frigid school day.

"What's the occasion?"

Severus sat down heavily in the armchair on the other side of the table from Harry. "It is December, and you have survived your apprenticeship. Eat."

Harry, as ordered, took a bite of one of one of the biscuits and instantly wished he had a cup of coffee to go with them, though getting up to make some was out of the question. He thought about asking Severus to make him a cuppa, as his tea had gone cold, though the last time he'd heard anyone do that, Severus had taken them quite literally, so it really wasn't worth the risk. Instead, he pushed a bit further.

"Does that mean I've _passed_ your teaching course or that you've given up?"

"I do not 'give up' Mister Potter."

"So I should assume you think I'm now _competent_ , _Mister_ Snape?"

" _Professor_ Snape, if you please, and no, I think you're rather astoundingly incompetent. But I have long suspected that is irremediable. Or were you speaking _specifically_ about the state of your teaching?"

"Git. Have a biscuit." Harry pushed the box across the table and smiled as Severus took a biscuit, popping it whole into his mouth with a sigh of pleasure that made Harry feel he should be somewhere else, especially as Severus finished chewing and immediately took another, again with a sigh and that fleeting expression that might have been happiness.

Severus swallowed the last bit of it and shut his eyes, resting his hands over his midsection. And then he slid down in his chair, which caused his knees to brush against Harry's under the small table. Harry froze, expecting Severus to sit up or shift away or something, but Severus seemed not to notice or care—about the contact or anything else for that matter—as he'd fallen asleep, his breathing slow and even, his expression softening as he began to snore a little. 

It had been a very long day, and Harry watched him sleep, feeling sleepy himself, and not at all sure how he felt about Severus' knees pressed up against his own. But he didn't move, as that might wake him, and there was something amusing about watching him sleep from this close and thinking about what Ron would say if he could see the two of them. Ron would probably say that he was surprised the greasy git could sleep without hanging by his toenails from the rafters. And how would he explain that Snape wasn't like that after all, and perhaps never had been. Harry had never managed to free himself of the memory of the boy Severus had been, hanging upside-down from a tree, though it was hard to reconcile that creature with the man before him whose knees weren't nearly so knobby after all, and whose face was, if not attractive, then certainly not quite as horrible as it had once seemed. He was almost pleasant— as long as he didn't speak.

Harry watched him for awhile longer and then heard footsteps in the hall and at last he gave in and picked up his serviette, moistening it with some tea, and, carefully as he could, leaned forward over the small table and dabbed at the smear of chocolate at the corner of Severus' mouth, holding his breath for fear of waking him, though Severus did not so much as stir, even when Harry's fingertips happened to brush over Severus' lower lip.

Harry told himself that he didn't want anyone coming into the lounge to see Severus look so very _human_ , though as he sat back in his chair and let his own eyes fall shut, he suspected that he might be the very last person at Hogwarts to come to that conclusion.

  


* * *

  


Hogwarts was empty during December hols, and as Harry helped several straggling children pack up their kits, he wondered if Severus had a home to return to, then reminded himself that of _course_ he did. Spinner's End, probably, as it was impossible to imagine Snape moving.  
  
Harry still kept a small flat in London, and he had an open invitation to the Weasleys' as well as a fixed invitation to Ron and Hermione's house. But he put off packing up his own things until the very last moment, and kept looking behind him as he walked off Hogwarts grounds, half-believing that the place might disappear just after he looked away. It was crusted in snow, a fairytale castle that, just at the moment, seemed to promise great things—as it had when he was a child seeing it for the very first time. But it was far too cold for any self-respecting fairies, and Harry looked at the bags at his feet and remembered that he wasn't a child, and didn't want to be, though he wasn't all that certain he wanted to grow up, either. 

The house elves seemed impatient for him to leave, though they did pack him a lunch basket to tide him over during the trip, and once off the grounds, he apparated home rather than taking the train, opening up his flat to find it seemed smaller than when he'd left it, a blinding white box that he'd never minded before, but which now seemed like a stranger's space—devoid of personality. Had he done that on purpose? His rooms at Hogwarts were very different, gradually filling with objects, books, papers...artifacts of his new life.

On the far wall above the sofa was a lone picture taken during the final Quidditch championship—an action shot snapped at the moment just before he was nearly killed—the grassy field forever damp with the rains that had fallen the night before and into the morning, threatening to delay the match, then stopping just in time, the sun coming out again with a flat light that washed out the bleachers of fans who waved at him, still, cheering him on.

Arthur Weasley had taken a similar photograph just after the broom hit, though it was with his Muggle camera, and so mercifully still, yellowing around the edges and fading a bit because Arthur still hadn't mastered the fixing process, though Harry pointed out it was very much like potions. Severus had very nearly laughed as he recounted that conversation, and he smiled now, thinking of it, then stopped as he looked at the photo.

Harry didn't need a moving image to recall the feeling of blood pouring out of the wound and onto his uniform, soaking his front as the damp grass soaked his back, and the sudden silence of the crowd as they realized, en masse, what had happened.

He'd caught the snitch a half-second before the broom caught him, and they had still lost the match by nearly 70 points—enough that, in hospital, he made the decision he knew he'd been deliberating all season. There was no point waiting to retire on a win. He just didn't want it enough anymore, and the team just wasn't up to it, and his presence, even at the top of his game, was not enough to secure the championship, though it had got them to the finals. It would have to be enough.

And it had been enough, though with each passing day in retirement, he became less satisfied with how it had ended—not just Quidditch, but the War; killing Voldemort, in retrospect, had also left him empty and grasping, the brief moment of joy too much like the weight of the snitch in his hand, which he'd squeezed tight through the pain, until it cut through his palm and slipped away.

  


* * *

  


The black owl pecking and hooting at his bedroom window woke him from a restless sleep, and at first he reached to turn off the radio alarum, then saw it was too early to get up, and certainly too bloody early for an owl. And yet the pecking continued and he finally got up and opened the window, letting it in. It perched on his bedhead and he removed the note, grabbing his glasses off the bedside table.

It was just two words and a date and time—an invitation worded as a command, and Harry shivered as a cold wind reminded him he'd left the window open. Severus' owl hooted at him impatiently and his own owl, Lazy Twit, hooted in reply from under his covered cage. Harry shushed them both and wrote, "Yes," then sent the owl on its way, shutting the window after it and huddling under the covers until he felt warm again, though he couldn't bring himself to sleep.

  


* * *

  


Harry stood outside the door at Spinner's End with his bottle of wine, feeling vaguely anxious and annoyed at that. It was just Severus, after all. Just Severus _Snape_ , he reminded himself, in his own home.

Harry shivered, and not from the cold wind chafing his face and numbing his ears. He really should have just owled that he was busy, thank you, but perhaps another time, except... he'd been curious, and he'd always been at the mercy of his curiosity, as Severus well knew. He was a Gryffindor, after all, and what was courage without curiosity driving one into danger? Though it was the Slytherin in him that had kept him alive all these years—he'd come to grips with that, painful as it was.

He nodded to himself and knocked at the door, hugging the bottle to his chest. The wine was good, the vintner had assured him, and it damned well should be given what he'd paid for it. And he was wearing newly tailored robes that actually seemed to hang right, and had invested in a new cloak as well. Finally, while he was out, he'd given in and purchased new shoes, deciding he needed something besides trainers if he was splurging on the rest, though they were now so covered in snow they might as well have been his old trainers. Even so, he was now dressed better than just about anyone he saw on the street, and he'd gripped his wand tightly when walking past the closes and as he passed the groups of men standing around smoking on the corner, as it was more likely he'd run into a Muggle mugger than a down-on-his-luck Death Eater.

Severus, opening the door, seemed to have noticed none of his improvements, or perhaps he _had_ and Harry looked as stupid as he felt. Severus stared at him blankly as if he'd completely forgotten he'd ever issued the invitation. For a moment, Harry wondered if he'd got the date wrong, but no, it really was Friday night, as evidenced by the bints outside the local, shivering and gossiping while waiting for their boyfriends.

"Here," Harry said, holding the wine out, and Severus looked down at it but didn't take it. "It's wine," Harry clarified, as if that wasn't dead obvious.

"Yes," Severus agreed, drawing the word out but still not taking it or moving aside. Severus was in his shirtsleeves and must have been freezing. Harry's own feet were numb, and stamping them repeatedly on the cobblestone street did little to return sensation to his toes.

"May I come in? It's bloody cold out, yeah?"

"Your glasses." 

Harry reached up to push them back up his nose and nearly put his eye out.

"I... I've got contact lenses." He blinked at Severus as his eyes teared up a bit, which helped bring Severus into focus a bit more. The optometrist said he'd developed astigmatism and had warned him that, at first, things might blur a bit. And it had only been five hours now he'd been wearing them, and that was pushing it, as he was supposed to begin gradually and to have taken them out by now. And then there was the cold wind, which seemed colder without the glasses shielding his eyes.

"Contact lenses," Severus repeated, as though he'd never heard of them, which perhaps he hadn't.

"Muggle ingenuity," Harry observed, and that insult to all things magical seemed to bring Severus back to himself, as he shook his head with a frown and grabbed the neck of the bottle from Harry's hands, pulling Harry inside along with it.

There was a brief dance in the doorway as Severus tried to shut the door before Harry was fully in, and his new cloak was nearly left outside, caught on the doorknob. He thought he heard a tearing sound and didn't dare look. But then they sorted themselves out, and Severus backed away, and Harry came inside properly and had a chance to look around. It was easier than it used to be, as his glasses didn't fog up from the warmth of the fire.

There were bookcases everywhere in place of the usual decoration, the leather spines making the room rather dark, and even with improved vision, Harry immediately tripped over a pile of books which had not found their way back onto the shelves, provoking a muttered comment from Severus about untied shoelaces that Harry pretended not to hear as part of his "be civil if it kills you" campaign, which he suspected might end in an early death for one of them, if not both. He'd been invited to the man's house, which signaled an unprecedented stage in their "friendship," such as it was, and Harry was intent on enjoying it for as long as it lasted, or until Severus remembered that Harry was the Bane of his Existence.

"Contact lenses," Severus said again, examining the bottle of wine by the fire.

Harry relaxed as Severus nodded, apparently approving of at least one of his choices.

Harry decided it looked like he was going to stay for at least a few more minutes, and so he removed his cloak and robe, looking around for somewhere to hang them and seeing nothing obvious, as the back of the door held a makeshift bookcase in lieu of a coathook.

But then Severus put the wine down on a small table and took his things from him and disappeared with them into one of the back rooms, returning with a Muggle bottle opener that looked positively ancient, along with two glasses.

Severus poured the wine, handing a glass to him and barely waiting for Harry to grab it before withdrawing his hand. For a few tense seconds, Harry bobbled the glass, sure he was about to drop it onto yet another stack of unshelved paperbacks that seemed, now that he was watching for them, to creep out at odd, hazardous angles all over the floor.

"Graceful as ever, Potter."

" _Harry_ , and have you considered a boot sale for some of this—" Harry gestured at the mess with one hand and took a sip of the wine, which tasted fine to him, though he rarely drank the stuff. 

"Where on earth do you suggest I begin?" Severus' voice was mild, almost amused, and Harry found he enjoyed the sound of it.

He reached down and picked up a book at random, turning it over to see the cover. The cover art was a barely dressed woman holding a gun in a highly suggestive pose. "You actually _read_ this?"

"I _read_ ," Severus said, a general statement that suggested that he had or planned to read all the books he owned, and possibly all the books that ever existed, given the extent of his personal library. "Do _you_?"

Harry chose to ignore the attack on his literacy. "Is it any good?" 

"It is a _classic,_ Mister—"

"Harry."

"You may keep it, if you like."

"Um... thanks." Harry wasn't at all sure whether Severus was being sarcastic about the book's merit, but now it appeared he would be taking the book home with him and finding out. And if Severus _was_ being sarcastic, he'd look pretty silly if he read it and admitted to liking it; though if it was, in fact, a classic and he said it was _awful_... there really was no way to win, except to cheat and give it to Hermione to evaluate for him.

After a moment, Severus gestured toward one of two armchairs squeezed into one corner of the room beside the fire. A table sat between them, oddly reminiscent of the teacher's lounge.

"Our meal should be arriving shortly."

Harry sat down and Severus took the other chair, looking tense and uncertain, and despite the warning, Harry was startled at the knock at the door only a moment later.

Severus got up and found his way through the books and Harry listened as a he exchanged words with someone who spoke halting English with a Chinese accent and then watched, with some amazement, as Severus reached into his back pocket and pulled out three Muggle ten pound notes, handing them over to the man at the door who, in turn, handed him two plastic shopping bags that, even from across the room, smelled heavenly.

"No house elf?" Harry asked as Severus walked past him with the bags. 

Severus called out from the kitchen, "I prefer privacy to convenience. We shall eat in here by the fire, as, at present, I have no dining table."

"I—"

"Miss Granger was not entirely incorrect in thinking that house elves are a form of indentured servitude."

"But—"

"It is not a popular opinion now anymore than it was then and it is one to which you've no doubt given very little thought."

"You—" Harry stopped, as Severus had disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two plates piled high with Chinese, setting them down on the small tea table before Harry had come up with a more tactful response than _sod off, I actually have given it quite a bit of thought, and I do not appreciate the implication that I do not think, do not read, and by the way, it was you who invited me to your house, you greasy, pompous, bastard._

Just thinking it made him feel a bit better, and he loosened his grip on his wine glass, sure he was close to shattering it.

"Chopsticks or fork?"

"Chopsticks, thank you." Biting his tongue and stuffing his face was likely to be the better part of valor, though his first try with the chopsticks ended with the noodles returning to the plate rather than ending in his mouth. With a fork, he would have been much less likely to end up with lo mein on his new clothing, but much more likely to earn a disdainful look from Severus, who had picked up his own set of chopsticks and was eating quite gracefully with them as Harry struggled with the slippery noodles. And it might have been paranoia on his part, but he suspected that Severus was enjoying seeing him make a fool of himself, as he waited until Harry finally got a mouthful of noodles before starting in again.

"And so, Mister Potter, you have, I assume, reached the conclusion that house elves should continue to remain unpaid and that it is an insult to them to suggest otherwise?"

Harry swallowed, with some difficulty. "You assume incorrectly."

"Ah. And what _are_ your thoughts?"

_Accio Patience. Avada Kedavra_ . "About house elves, takeaway, or you?"

Severus took a measured sip of wine. "I will leave that to your discretion."

Harry gave up on eating for the moment, setting the plate on the table and taking a long drink of wine. While it might not be a particularly _good_ idea to get drunk, he had no _better_ ideas... "It's very good, thank you."

Harry could already see that this was going to end with him standing on the street, without his robe or cloak because he wasn't going to wait for Severus to get them before leaving and he wasn't sure he wanted to Accio them through a window, though it would serve the bastard right if he broke a few windows, as the damage to his house would fit right into the generally dismal street.

Severus refilled his glass, again, without comment, though Harry knew he was still expected to speak.

"Right, then. As for the house elf question, I think that Hermione's heart was in the right place, but she acted presumptuously in speaking—"

"A frequent error on her part—"

"—on behalf of those who could speak for themselves. She might have _begun_ by speaking _with_ them to find out what they needed—how their lives might be best improved without disrupting—"

"The social order, however exploitative it might be," Severus concluded, with a note of such smugness that Harry found himself rising from his chair.

"Now that's a bit much. Severus Snape, protector of the meek? Does anybody actually believe that bollocks, or does the Ministry just make you write it over and over on your bloody chalkboard hoping that you'll convince yourself you've reformed, you hypocritical son of a—"

"Harry James _Potter_ —"

And there it was—Snape was on his feet, wand out, and Harry watched with some pleasure as the git pointed it at him, looking like he was very close. _Very_ close.

"What is it to be this time, Snape?" A full-on fight would just feel so _good_.

But Harry again saw that maddening trace of a smile ghost across Severus' face, this time joined by a sound that might well have been a laugh. And Harry followed Severus' gaze and looked at his own hand.

"I believe I have you at a slight disadvantage, Mister Potter." Severus lowered his own wand and sat back down, apparently sensing that Harry's chopstick posed no great threat to life or limb.

"Bloody hell," Harry sighed, falling back into his own chair and setting his chopstick back down on his plate. "Bloody fucking hell. You are _maddening_."

Severus lifted his glass of wine and Harry did the same, and they touched their glasses together. 

And then, as if by mutual agreement, they both went silent, finishing off the food, which was quite good—and certainly better than the company. Harry managed to get the hang of the chopsticks after a few more tries watching Severus attack his meal. 

He let Severus top his glass off more than once, feeling gradually warmer, more lethargic, listening to the pop and crackle of the logs in the fireplace. It was actually quite a good simulated fire, and floo-safe, he assumed, though Harry suspected few had access to Severus' floo, and fewer still would dare use it.

"You were saying," Severus said finally, as if the last half hour hadn't passed with them both eating in a strained, tense silence.

"I was _saying_..." Harry began, then shrugged, as he really didn't remember anymore what his point had been, or if it had been a good one, or even how they'd got to arguing about one of Hermione's old pet projects, except perhaps that it seemed safer than talking about themselves. 

At Hogwarts, they somehow managed, but outside of it... it was just impossible to be civil with a man who made him want to _hit_ things no matter _what_ they talked about—and he _rarely_ hit things when a wand could do the work for him, especially as he usually didn't have a chance in a physical fight, sans magic, though if desire counted for anything, he might have been able to kill Severus with his bare hands.

His wand was tucked into his robe _somewhere_ in Severus' house. Stupid—letting the bastard take it. His hand felt empty and he closed his fingers into a fist, though he realized that he'd drunk so much already that, even armed, Severus would likely have the advantage.

"Accio Potter's wand," Severus said quietly, as if reading his mind—and Merlin help him if he had, because Harry was no good at Occlumency when he was drinking, though Severus would likely say he was bollocks at it even when sober. Harry watched as his wand floated into the room and into Severus' outstretched hand.

Harry's fingers itched to hold it again, and he waited, but Severus kept on holding it for long enough that Harry wondered if he was going to have to take it back by force. But then Severus handed it to him with a somber expression that suggested that he, too, was disappointed with the way things had gone, though Harry wondered how Severus had _imagined_ the evening unfolding, and why, if he'd wanted it to go smoothly, he had to be such an _arse_ about everything.

Severus stood up and Harry did as well. It was done, time to cut his losses, say thank you for the meal and see you around (which he would—there was no avoiding that), and, if Severus allowed it, he might even shake his hand before going home to sleep it off. They could return to their lives and pretend they'd never tried this, and no one would be the wiser. _He_ certainly wasn't going to tell Ron he'd been over Snape's for a meal, and even if he did, Ron would hardly believe him.

"Harry—I'll admit I feared it was a mistake—"

"Thank you. It was most—"

"—inviting you here, but I am pleased—"

"You're _pleased_? How can you—we've been arguing the whole damned _time_!"

Severus shrugged, as if that were a given—unremarkable, expected—as if anything else would have surprised him and perhaps even displeased him. 

And then Severus took a step toward him, and Harry blinked and reached behind him for the arm of the chair, suddenly a bit dizzy. He'd stood up too quickly, and drunk too much wine, and Severus seemed to be leaning forward—the room tipping—and he took a step backward and—

"Bloody hell," he said from the floor, having gone arse over tit thanks to yet another pile of bloody books. How the hell did anyone live like this?

Harry looked up at the man looming above him and held up a hand in warning. "Do not say it. Just shut up. This is your bloody fault with your bloody disaster of a house, and I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking coming over and—no, I know what I was thinking. I was thinking that perhaps you'd grown up and got over your pitiful desire to put me in what you think is my place, but I can tell you now that I hereby give up trying to be reasonable. I have been _more_ than reasonable. I've been a bloody—"

"You've been quite entertaining, actually." Severus said, interrupting what promised to be a good long rant, holding a hand out to him and tucking his wand away.

"Bastard."

"That was a compliment."

"I think you should look that word up in one of your many books, because I don't think it means what you think it means." 

"Nominetenus.[i]"

Harry glared up at Severus for a moment before deciding that it would be rude to ignore him, and stupid to boot, as he had no confidence in his own legs anymore. And so he grasped Severus' hand and, very carefully, came to standing, shutting his eyes until the room stopped its swaying. Severus' other hand came to hold his elbow, a steadying presence until he opened his eyes and saw that Severus was now standing rather close to him—in what he normally considered his personal space.

"Mister Potter, perhaps I _should_ have said that your eyes are—"

"My eyes are _what_."

"Green," Severus said after an awkward pause.

Harry blinked and then laughed. "Yes, they are. How observant of you to notice. Do you approve of green eyes, _Professor_ Snape?"

Severus seemed to consider that seriously for a moment, then nodded. "It is a Slytherin colour."

Harry felt himself sway again, though Severus was still holding him upright, holding him awfully close, actually. He knew he should say something—something complimentary about Severus, who was, after all, trying in his own miserly way. But Harry couldn't think of anything at all to say that wasn't purely descriptive or downright backhanded.

After all, the man was tall, and that was clearly advantageous if one had to reach the upper shelves. But was that worthy of a compliment?

And there was that hair which was, Harry had finally concluded, not Severus' natural color (had he coloured it even as a student?) and slick from an over-application of something that, now that he was up close, smelled faintly soapy, and which Harry assumed Severus used to keep it from curling up, though it still did that at the ends. Was now the time to suggest that it might look better if Severus just let it be?

Probably not, Harry considered. So... his face? Pale as a toadstool. Not much to compliment there. Harry could see, looking closer, that Severus had laugh lines, except that Severus didn't laugh often enough to have earned them. And there was that deeper line—a groove, really—that was nearly always between his eyebrows and which made Severus look annoyed even on those rare occasions when he wasn't.

He did have a very attractive voice. Harry could say that honestly enough. Though he almost preferred _not_ to hear him speak, as most of what Severus had to say was snippy, if not outright mean.

So, in sum, the man was middle aged and not particularly handsome, though he did have an interesting face, rather oval shaped, with two lines that ran from his long nose to the corners of his mouth. And his mouth... well, when Severus wasn't actively shouting at him, it was actually rather nicely-shaped, with what looked like very soft lips...

Severus tipped his head, and Harry leant back against the bookshelves for  
support and found he only needed to tip his own head slightly up to reach  
Severus, who met him halfway. Their lips brushed softly together, as if at  
first it were merely a test—a successful one, Harry decided right off,  
letting his own lips part as Severus pressed him back harder against the bookshelves,  
holding his arms against his sides, keeping him from moving anything but his  
hips, which he thrust against Severus while moaning into his mouth.

The kiss lasted a good long time, and when Severus pulled back and let him breathe again, he found himself unable to ask the very obvious question of what the _hell_ they were doing _kissing_ when only a moment ago—and for the last two and a half decades, with the exception of those few moments of uneasy truce brought about by the liberal application of sweets—they'd been ready to kill each other. But if he asked, Severus _would_ have an answer ready, and he didn't really want Severus to say anything and spoil it.

Severus tasted like wine and garlic and Harry immediately missed the brush of hair against his cheek, and the solid warmth of the man pressed against his front. It had felt oddly _right_. He might even come to like Severus' library, though the books on the floor would have to go if he were to stay; he would stand firm on that. Or, more to the point, fall as he'd already fallen.

When Severus said, very quietly, "The bedroom," there was a question buried somewhere in those two words that Harry appreciated for its honesty. Severus didn't know what they were doing either, which made it better somehow.

Harry followed Severus through to the stairs and up, until they came to the door, which was open enough that Harry could see a bed, large enough for two, and, no surprise, more books at the foot of the bed and on a bookshelf against the wall beside a shelf filled with potion bottles and assorted oddments Harry was sure must be related to potions in some way.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside, wary of ending up on the floor again. But the path to the bed was clear, and he sat down on the edge of it and waited.

Severus came into the room and stopped just inside the door, looking uncertain, which was a nice bit of change. And then he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. His lower lip was out in a great big pout. If he came close enough, Harry planned on kissing it again.

"Drink."

Harry frowned and looked at the bottle that appeared on the bed beside him, as if by magic. He laughed, picking it up and examining it. "You want me to drink _more_? I thought I was quite drunk enough already."

" _Drink_ ," Severus said again, his voice going harder, and Harry sighed and uncapped the bottle. The potion was pleasantly sweet. "That's not too—oh!"

Where he'd been a bit _too_ drunk before, he was now on the other end of things and far too sober, the sudden rush of clarity bringing with it panic. He was sitting on Severus Snape's bed. And it was unmade, the green (like his eyes, which Severus _liked_ ) duvet turned down casually, the bottom sheet (also green) rumpled, as if Severus had not planned on a guest.

Severus had his arms crossed over his chest, not coming any closer, but barring the way against Harry leaving, and Harry opened his mouth to say something along the lines of, "This was obviously a mistake." But some stupid vestige of Gryffindor courage kicked in and he heard himself say, "Well, come on in, then, if you're coming. And I do plan on coming, by the way, with or without you."

"How _romantic_."

"I don't _do_ romance, Severus. I should think you'd have guessed that by now."

"And what, precisely, _do_ you _do_?" 

"Sparkling conversation?"

"You lack the necessary wit, even when sober."

"Ah, well, we could go back to drinking. I've heard I'm more interesting when drunk."

"You have been misled." Severus' upraised eyebrow was the only indication that he was at all amused, and it lent his face an undeniable appeal.

Harry fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment, stalling for time. There was a water stain above it that, if he squinted, looked a bit like a serpent eating its own tail. "I think I am wounded. Yes, definitely wounded. To the very heart. However shall I go on? Wait—what was the question?"

Severus sighed heavily and Harry could imagine him frowning.

"Look, Snape. I'm not particular, alright?"

"Clearly." 

Something in his voice made Harry roll over onto his side. Severus' hair had fallen forward to shield his face and Harry resisted the urge to get up and push it away so he could see his face.

"I meant positions, not partners, Snape. I will do anything, not any _one_."

"Anything?" Severus sounded interested and Harry smiled.

"Anything, probably. We'll have to test that. What did you have in mind?"

"How many partners have you had in your short life?"

"In my _short_ life?"

"Yes."

"Well...." Harry rubbed his chin and then pretended to count on his hand, then shrugged. "Enough to know what I want, but not enough to have found it."

"And you believe you will find what you want _here_?" 

"I must be desperate." Harry smiled, not sure if they were playing anymore. 

Severus, not surprisingly, did not smile back. "I have done—"  


"I know who you are and what you've done and what you are and what you've been."

"You know quite a lot, then." Severus sounded amused, though his expression was still deadly serious. "And none of this disturbs you?"

"Snape, everything _about_ you is disturbing. Apparently, that's in your favor tonight. But if you don't _want_ —"

"Oh, I _do_ want."

Harry swallowed what he'd been about to say, as desire had roughened Severus' normally smooth voice and Harry thought Severus might not need to touch him at all if he just kept saying nice things like that.

He kept his eyes locked with Severus' dark gaze as he pulled off his jumper and swung his feet up onto the bed to remove his socks, then lay back to undo his trousers, pulling them down, then off and onto the floor, where the clothing landed on a pile of books. And then he lay back on the pillows, getting comfortable—or as comfortable as he could get with Severus Snape studying him.

Finally, he lifted his hips off the bed, sliding his pants down and off to join the rest of his clothing.

"I was your teacher, once." Severus sounded somewhat breathless, and Harry wondered if the reminder was for his benefit or if it was Severus' last objection to what now seemed inevitable. Or maybe it just turned him on. 

He didn't mind the fantasy, and grinned, beginning to touch himself, keeping one hand on his chest and letting the other drift down to his erection. "And do you have anything left to teach me, Professor?"

Severus was silent, but Harry could see that he was hard and watched with some amazement as Severus reached down and adjusted his trousers before walking over to the bed, his hands first coming to rest over Harry's own as they kissed. Before long, he was pushing Harry's hands aside and taking over. Severus' touch was rougher, his hands larger, long-fingered and sure as he pulled at Harry's prick, and Harry leaned over and touched his wand, whispering, "Accio Lubricant," not too surprised when one of Severus' potions bottles flew off the far shelf and into his hand. Severus took it from him without comment, pouring some out, so that his hand glided easily over Harry's foreskin, his fingers then dipping back to stroke his inner thigh, then up again, teasingly close, so that Harry parted his legs to encourage him further.

"Nice," Harry whispered.

"Never," Severus shot back, his voice low and dark as his hand tightened over Harry's erection, his other hand sliding down over Harry's chest, over the scar that stretched across his middle, only partially obscured by the sparse hair there.

"I have some scars," Harry noted, wishing Severus was naked as well, or that he was still drunk enough to not be so very self-conscious.

"As do we all."

"Let me see them."

"In due time. You very nearly died."

"The key word being nearly."

Severus wrinkled his nose with apparent distaste. "It was a stupid risk, Harry. And for so little glory."

"I don't care about glory," Harry pointed out, for what now had to be the hundredth time. "And I _did_ get the snitch. Ah!—don't—don't stop."

"If you are so unconcerned with glory, as you say, why do you keep that photograph? "

"I—how do you—"

"Legilimens." It was a confession, not a casting, but even so, Harry felt himself scrambling to shield himself from further probing.

"The photograph, Harry?"

Harry was finding it harder to focus as he got closer to coming, though the distraction was welcome, as he didn't want to come—yet. "The photograph. Yes. It—it reminds me how far there is to fall," Harry whispered.

Severus stopped what he was doing.

Harry sighed. "You think it's stupid."

"No. I think you are stupid, and, as such, it seems an appropriate cautionary measure."

Harry would have objected, but Severus' hand had returned to Harry's body, renewing him with softer, more measured strokes and caresses.

"You—You really should have bought a programme and queued up for my autograph that day. I hear the ones I signed just before the last match are quite valuable now."

Severus ignored him, though when he leaned in for another kiss, Harry felt him smile.

He reached out to urge him onto the bed, but Severus pulled away again, this time to remove his shoes and socks. Harry watched as he lined the shoes up neatly at the foot of the bed, casting a disapproving eye at Harry's discarded clothing, but making no move to pick it up.

Harry shifted over to make room as Severus climbed up beside him, stretching out and propping himself on one arm. His hair fell forward into his face and Harry reached out and moved it back behind his ear before leaning in to kiss him again. As he slid one hand up under Severus' shirt, Severus drew in a sharp breath and whispered, "Nox Lumos."

"Lumos!" Harry brought the lights back up again.

" _Nox_ ," Severus said again, his voice suggesting that to argue otherwise would be a Very Bad Thing.

But again, the room was thrown into a darkness so complete that Harry had the eerie feeling that it had ceased to exist. Only the solid warmth of Severus by his side and the bed beneath him kept him from feeling he might float away or disappear into the dark.

_Minimus_ Lucerna," Harry said after a moment—a compromise. And now a single light hovered beside the bed, casting shadows on the wall, and a soft light on them both. When Severus didn't object, he began to undress him, unbuttoning his shirt. Severus sat up and pulled it off, and Harry stopped and just looked at him for a moment. He was very, very pale, with sparse grey hair curling over his chest and belly. Severus lay back down, and Harry traced a line from the hollow of his throat to his navel. He wanted to undress him further but was stopped by the panicked part of him that insisted that it didn't matter that he knew what a man looked like or felt like. This was Severus Snape, the only man to ever inspire actual fear in him—the kind of fear that was mixed with lust and hate and too many other things to make a wit of sense, even now.

Severus looked up at the ceiling, not meeting Harry's eyes. "I am less than ideal."

His voice was soft and Harry heard the question there, remembering that he had been intentionally cruel to the man on more than one occasion.

"You are...." Harry cleared his throat, trying to find the words. When he did, his voice was hoarse and unsteady—barely recognizable. "You are more than adequate."  


"High praise, indeed," Severus murmured, his mouth turning up at one corner in an uncertain smile as he turned back to Harry, and Harry leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, because for unknown reasons, that made it easier—getting lost in the rush of sensations that were about sex and nothing more. And as they kissed, he awkwardly undid Severus' trousers.

"Let me."

Harry shivered and nodded, watching as Severus sat up and removed his trousers and then his pants with economical movements. And before Harry had much of a chance to look, Severus had pulled him up and on top of him, wrapping his arms around Harry's back and holding him there, the flat of his hands resting on Harry's arse.

"Homo nudus cum nudus iacebat.[ii]"

Harry laughed. "More."

Severus smiled up at him. "Cum loquor, una mihi peccatur littera; nam te pe-dico semper blaesaque lingua mihi est."

Harry frowned, struggling to translate and feeling, even now, that he was being put to a test. And what if he failed? "Whenever I speak, I... I sin—I mistake one letter; I always say pedico."

"Paedico," Severus said with some emphasis.

"Paedico?" Harry repeated, drawing a blank.

"Paedico," Severus repeated. "I shall demonstrate, as I have been informed that some students learn best by example." 

Harry couldn't manage a reply as Severus quickly rolled him over onto his back, and, before Harry could get his bearings, Severus had parted his legs, drawing them up and over his shoulders. Harry felt himself blush as Severus climbed up onto his knees, lifting him up further, and he shut his eyes as Severus kissed the inside of his thigh, his words punctuated with more kisses there, until Harry was almost impossibly hard. "Do pay attention, Harry."

"Yes, Professor," Harry agreed, breathing hard and feeling his face grow even hotter.

"Cum loquor, una mihi peccatur littera; nam te pe-dico semper blaesaque lingua mihi est. Oft in my speech one letter is lost; for Predicate always Pedicate I pronounce. Reason—a trip of the tongue!"

Harry stopped breathing, then, as Severus' tongue slipped inside of him, sliding out only to return again, slick and hot and absolutely the most intense thing he'd ever felt.

And then it came to him, and he was brought to the edge and over and was coming.

> _Praedico: I warn you not to trespass._  
>  _Paedico: I am sodomising you._

It was, Harry would realize later, at precisely that moment that he realized he was in love.

  


* * *

  


_Epilogue:_

"You are late."

"I am not."

"Your tea has gone cold. Here."

Harry caught the package easily, though he suspected Snape had deliberately thrown it so that, if he hadn't, it would have hit him in the head.

"Graceful as ever," Snape observed, warming his cup as Harry sat down.

"You throw like a—"

"Open it before you complete that sentence, Mister Potter, or I shall take it back."

"Hmm." Harry held his tongue and ripped the package open on his lap and smiling as he saw what was inside. "You shouldn't have!"

"You no longer like them?"

Harry sighed, popping one into his mouth before answering. "Hmm. No. Like them very much. Too much. More than sex, I think."

"If that is true, I shall definitely take them back." Snape reached over his shoulder and Harry moved to protect the box, but Snape was fast when he was motivated.

Harry swatted his hand away, just on principle. "It is polite to wait until I _offer_ you one."

"You are exceedingly selfish about your pleasures, Mister Potter, and I have no doubt you would finish the box before sharing."

"Harry," he corrected, out of habit, and because it was a great deal of fun to try to goad Snape into saying it anywhere but the bedroom. "And I don't see why I should waste them on you. You don't even like them."

"Like you, they are an _acquired_ taste," Snape shot back, reaching down to grab another from the box and somehow missing the box altogether and instead running his hand along the inside of Harry's thigh.

"Oh... It's like that, is it? Why don't we take this to your office and... talk about it at greater length? Oh, but don't let me forget to get some grading done tonight. I've a stack of essays that—"

"Are no doubt up to the usual standards, which is to say frighteningly inept and which you will, no doubt, reward with inflated—"

"Inflated your arse. I'm _fair_ , a concept you might find puzzling given your own penchant for favoring Slytherins who demonstrate only a passing acquaintance with literacy, magical or otherwise, to say nothing of simple ethics, about which they are appallingly unfamiliar."

Snape suddenly laughed—a sound Harry was becoming more familiar with, but which still surprised him.

"And what is so funny?"

"One might almost mistake you for a teacher, Mister Potter."

" _Professor_ Potter."

"Professor Potter," Snape repeated, reaching down for another chocolate. This time his fingers lingered and traced over Harry's erection.

"Your office or mine?" Harry managed, as Snape changed his touch, applying just enough pressure that Harry was glad for the cover of his robe.

"Neither. I categorically refuse to risk injury climbing atop furniture not designed for that purpose when there is a perfectly suitable bed available in either of our rooms."

Snape took his hand from Harry's lap with one last stroke that left Harry flushed and impatient. 

"Your place, Snape. Five minutes. Age before beauty."

Snape put a hand on his chest, holding him to the chair and leaning in close. " _Five_ minutes? If we do it properly, _Harry_ , I guarantee it will be at least an _hour_ before you climax."

Harry glanced at the door, hearing what might have been footsteps outside. Snape stood up quickly and took a step back. 

But the door remained closed and the silencing charm was still in place, and Harry breathed again.

Snape looked a bit paler than usual, as if he'd actually forgotten where they were until that moment. " _You_ have led me to take unnecessary risks."

"You need it as much as I do," Harry argued, not willing to take the blame this time, especially as it had been Snape to make the first move.

It was true that, over time, they had blurred the lines between work and play quite a bit. Snape had, at first, resisted, arguing that what they had begun at Spinner's End should remain there. But he had relented, and not simply because of base lust (of which Snape had a surprising amount, as it turned out). Even putting lust aside, Harry found it impossible to avoid Snape, and with it, their relationship, and that meant they were left with this—a temporary compromise with discretion that Harry suspected would end either by their publicly admitting to the relationship or by being found out, and Harry still wasn't sure which he preferred.

It was, in many ways, an impossible relationship conducted in the midst of hundreds of children and at least twenty nosy faculty members and staff, with little privacy to be had, and, complicating matters to no end, with an especially arrogant, bad-tempered _git_ .

"I will see you in my rooms in five minutes," the git said, his voice clipped and annoyed and yet still oddly attractive.

Harry nodded. "I'll bring the chocolates. Oh, you never said...what's the occasion?"

Snape was at the door and turned around, his eyes narrowing. "I had hoped that, at this point in our relationship, we no longer _needed_ an occasion to fuck."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Harry to haul himself out of the chair, run to the door, and lean out into the hall, calling out after him, "I meant the chocolates, Professor. What's the occasion for the _chocolates_ ?" 

But Snape either didn't hear him or, more likely, was deliberately ignoring him, a giant, black storm cloud gliding down the corridor, robes billowing, scattering frightened children as he passed and looming over those few who didn't have the sense or coordination to step aside.

Harry watched him until Snape turned the corner, heading for the stairs and his room. 

After a moment, Harry followed. Moving down the hall in Snape's wake, he stumbled over something, righting himself and looking down to see that it was one of the new textbooks—the one Snape insisted on referring to as "Potions for Dunderheads" only because Harry had chosen it over several others Snape had considered for the first years. 

He picked the book up and opened it, hoping the child had had the sense to write his or her name inside the cover.

"Why must he be so _mean_ ?"

Harry turned around and heard a gasp, then saw a first-year Hufflepuff who'd apparently been flattened against the wall by Snape's passage and who was now hiding in plain sight, clearly scared witless to have been caught out. Her wide-eyes were wet with unshed tears, and for a moment, he felt impatient and annoyed, because she wasn't supposed to be in the corridor this late to begin with, nor were any of the others whom Snape had already scared back into their beds.

"You should put your name in this so you don't lose it." He handed the book back to her and she took it with a frown and clasped it to her chest, looking like she was about to say something. 

He waited, but she remained quiet, watching him as he'd seen the other children watching Snape. 

She nodded again, still looking frightened, and he sighed. Spending time with Snape had done him no favors with the first years, who all seemed to have decided he was evil by association.

"I will walk you to your room and see that you get there."

He put a hand on her shoulder and started her moving in the direction of the stairs. Given how slowly she was walking and how uncooperative the stairs were at this hour, it would be at least another hour before he returned her, gave her prefect an earful, and made it back down to the dungeon, and by then Snape would, in all likelihood, have given up on him and locked and warded the door.

In fact, he very likely would have eaten the remaining chocolates in a fit of vengeance, and gone to bed. Harry hoped very much he got indigestion, if that was the case.

At the Hufflepuff portrait, Harry paused and turned to the girl. "Look, I will tell you a secret about Professor Snape."

He knelt down beside her and she leaned in close.

"But first, you must promise to share it with no one. Do you promise?"

"I promise," she whispered, and he smiled approvingly, feeling only a bit of guilt for what he was about to do.

"Yes, well, the secret is that... well, Professor Snape is mean because none of the students here bring him sweets."

Her eyes widened to the point of impossibility. "He likes sweets?"

"Very much," Harry nodded. "Especially chocolate. But tell no one. If the word gets out, and students start to bring him nice things to eat, he might be forced to... well, you can _imagine_ what might happen."

She nodded, then shook her head, looking puzzled. "I can't imagine it at all. Do you think he might stop shouting all the time?"

Harry stood up and nodded. "It's... _possible_. He might even smile. So you see why this must remain a secret, just between the two of us."

"Yes. I think so. It does seem a shame, though...."

Harry patted her on the head and said the password, trying very hard not to laugh when she took off at top speed through the Hufflepuff doorway and into the common room where, in a matter of seconds, the "secret" would be out and spreading from House to House to House to House.

And in the interest of time, he decided to leave her prefect alone. But once he started toward the dungeons, Harry started to get annoyed again and, rather than rushing, took his time going down the halls and down the stairs. The stairs cooperated with his desire to dawdle, taking him in exactly the wrong direction, at first, then turning back and down again. He touched the wall as he walked, enjoying the cool, almost damp stone and the sound of his own feet, his everyday trainers squeaking in sharp contrast to Snape's almost silent tread.

Though the castle had a muffling spell in place, the students' voices still echoed, a muted sound that meant the place was never quiet, except at night, when all the _good_ children were asleep, and when he used to move through the halls under cover and out of sight, always feeling restless and always surprised when Snape would catch him.

He still wasn't quite sure just how Snape had known where he was each and every time, though he suspected that it was because Snape had made it a point to study him, as he had eventually come to study Snape. It was, in fact, the only subject Harry felt he'd ever truly mastered at Hogwarts.

The corridors grew increasingly gloomy, and at last he was outside the door to Snape's rooms. He tried the door, not surprised to find it sealed shut.

He drew out his wand. "Alohamora." He'd known it wouldn't work, but by now it was a ritual. He took a breath and waved his wand again, muttering another spell, this one taking effect immediately. He shivered, and then made a fist and began to pound on the heavy wood door.

Thankfully did not take long before the door swung wide.

"You are—" 

Snape tasted of chocolate and scotch and Harry put his arms around Snape's neck and hugged him close, enjoying the smooth silk of Snape's pyjamas against his bare skin, at least until he was pushed away and held at arm's length.

"You are late and—"

"You know what they say: Tempus amoris cubiculum non est.[iii]"

"The time for love is not in the halls of Hogwarts, either," Snape hissed, pulling Harry into the room with more force than was necessary. Harry winced as his bare hip scraped against the doorway. "Anyone might have seen you."

"Anyone might have, yes, but as I've told you before, if you gave me the key to your wards, I wouldn't _have_ to stand outside your door naked at all hours of the night."

"You are insane." Snape shook his head and looked aggrieved. "Put your clothes on."

"That is a matter of opinion, and I've spelled them away to my rooms, so I'll have to borrow something of yours." But Harry had no intention of leaving and began to walk Snape backwards into the bedroom with one hand while casting with the other. "Accio wine. Accio two glasses. Accio choco—wait. You didn't eat it all, did you? No? Accio chocolate, then. Minimus Lucerna, while we're at it."

Snape growled as Harry set the wine and glasses and the box of chocolates on the table beside the bed. "Accio your arse into bed. Preparo Paedico Potter."

"Harry," he corrected softly, letting himself be pushed onto the bed and folded very nearly in half, with Snape tugging off his own pyjamas and sliding into him in one long thrust and with no further arguments.

Snape pulled out nearly all the way then pushed into him again and Harry moaned and curled up, getting his arms around Snape's neck and kissing him breathlessly, just hanging on, his fingers tangling in Snape's hair and scratching along his sweat-slick back.

And then Snape grabbed hold of Harry's cock, dragging his finger along the head and down to the root before tugging upward again with a practiced hand, the rhythm purposely too slow.

"Apologize," Snape murmured, drawing one hand across Harry's chest and pinching hard at one nipple.

"What for?"

Snape pinched harder and Harry gasped out, "Sorry. Sorry. Ss—I just want it out, I don't like—"

"Secrets," Snape whispered, pressing his face against Harry's neck.

Snape had stopped moving inside him, but they were still locked together, and Harry sighed, rubbing his hand over Snape's back, along the line of vertebrae and tracing over the scars he knew nearly as well as his own.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and Snape exhaled and then began to thrust again and pull, so that all Harry had to do was feel, until it all became too much, and then he cried out and came.

Snape continued to thrust into him, turning to slow, almost languid movements that built up again until Harry felt himself harden again, and only then did Snape go still, his thighs tensing under Harry as he moaned low and soft, a hum of pleasure signaling his orgasm.

Harry waited until Snape sighed deeply and kissed his neck again, and then they began to untangle their bodies. Harry stretched out beside Snape, who'd rolled onto his front, burying his face in a pillow with another long sigh.

Harry sat up and rested a hand on Snape's arse, kneading the flesh there and gradually moving down to rub at the backs of Snape's thighs. While Snape had been bony as a younger man, he was now somewhat thick-waisted in middle-age, with what Hermione once referred to as 'a typical Englishman's arse,' though Harry, having fucked him on more than one occasion, would've said that it had its own particular appeal. 

He rubbed all the way down Snape's long legs but stopped at his ankles, having no interest in being kicked, then moved back up again, straddling Snape and digging into the muscles of his upper back. "I know you're not asleep, Sev. We will talk about this."

Snape mumbled something unintelligible yet clearly disparaging into the pillow.

"Yeah, and what happened to that hour long fuck you promised? What happened to foreplay, for that matter? What happened to—"

Snape turned his head to the side but did not open his eyes. "I hate you."

"Hmm. The feeling is mutual." 

Snape relaxed a bit more under his hands. "I suspect I hate you more."

"And he says I'm competitive. You do know we have a problem."

"See the aforementioned comment."

Harry slapped him on the arse hard enough to sting. "No. We are going to talk about this or I am going to propose my own solution."

"Which would be?"

"I'll walk across the grounds naked with 'I fucked Severus Snape' written across my arse in blood."

Snape laughed. "There isn't _room_ on your arse for that. Leave it at 'Severus Snape.' One word per cheek will do."

"I'm serious."

"So'm I. Go to sleep, Potter."

Harry sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Hang on. Have to take out my contacts."

"Primitive Muggle devices."

He dismounted Snape's back and went to the loo, calling back, "You like my eyes."

Snape was silent, but when Harry returned to bed, he'd rolled over onto his side, his head propped on one arm, and was watching Harry with a frown on his face, his eyebrows drawn together.

"What's wrong?" Harry lay down beside him and Snape drew him close, tucking him under Snape's chin.

"I think you are right."

Harry looked up, startled, and his head collided with Snape's jaw hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

"Ow ,you clumsy—"

"You think I'm _right_? Wait—what am I right _about_?"

"Secrets." Snape rubbed at his jaw, looking down at him from above that long nose. "I have kept too many in my lifetime, but you are incapable of lying. So. We should tell the world."

"Sev, just how serious _was_ that head injury?"

Snape rolled onto his back, pulling away, and Harry moved in to close the distance, finding his place pillowed on Snape's chest, listening to his heart beating. Snape was thinking, and Harry kept silent, not yet convinced that Snape meant what he said, or that he would still mean it in the morning.

Snape took an especially deep breath and when he spoke, his voice rumbled beneath Harry's cheek. "I don't believe in public declarations of any sort."

"I don't either," Harry agreed.

"Bollocks. You would love to be in the papers. They've lost interest, you realize. As far as the press is concerned, your life is now utterly boring, suitable for an annual, 'Where is the hero now?' column and nothing more."

"You're changing the subject, and you won't get a rise out of me on this one," Harry pointed out, pressing a kiss to one flat brown nipple before laying his head back down again.

Snape seemed to consider that and at last nodded. "Then tell whom you will."

Harry sat up and looked at him carefully and, seeing that he was serious, kissed him on the edge of his jaw, where he'd knocked into him before. The spot was red and likely to bruise if Snape didn't see to it soon.

"I can tell _anyone_?"

"Provided you are fully dressed at the time, yes."

The twitch of Snape's mouth upward was a relief, and Harry smiled. "Provided you let me in, both here and at Spinner's End and anywhere else you claim as your own."

Snape started to object but Harry stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Don't panic. I won't be moving in, at least not 'till you've done something about your library. I'd just like the freedom to come and go in your absence."

"Agreed, _provisionally_. But not my laboratory."

"Good." Harry said, not bothering to point out that the laboratory was the one place he could easily break in on his own. He also didn't ask what "provisionally" meant, as it would very likely lead to another argument. 

Snape's arm came around him, and he rested one hand on Snape's belly. "So _this_ was the occasion? You'd already decided?"

"This was the occasion, yes."

"You might have just said so."

"And miss an evening's entertainment at your expense?"

"Arse."

"Always," Snape agreed, seeming at last at ease. He shut his eyes  
and, as Harry watched, was soon snoring lightly, then mumbling in his sleep.

Harry shut his eyes, then opened them again, too wound up, still. He gave in and got up from bed, quietly making his way to the door, afraid to open it. But curiosity got the better of him and he opened it and, as he'd expected, gifts had already begun to arrive.

He bent down and gathered them up, setting them on the table just inside the door, where Snape would be sure to see them. A bag of chocolate frogs began to bounce on top of a large chocolate chip biscuit until it started to crumble. Harry sighed and rearranged it all, then picked up one of the smaller biscuits, unwrapped it, and ate it, sighing as he remembered he'd have to clean his teeth again. He was also going to have to stop eating so many biscuits, or the joke would turn out to have been on him.

He went to the loo and got back into bed, making himself comfortable beside Snape, one hand again on Snape's middle, where it was soon covered by Snape's hand, a gesture of affection that Snape would never make while he was awake. It was strange thinking he'd finally get to stay the night, with no need to sneak off, no worries of being seen coming up from the dungeon, though he really did prefer saying something to being seen. Perhaps at breakfast—not a public announcement, but something subtler... but he couldn't think of anything save holding Severus' hand while they ate breakfast, and somehow, he suspected that would not go over well.

"Severus Snape. I do hate you, sincerely and with all my heart." He could only whisper it, and was glad that Severus couldn't hear him, as he'd definitely said too much, mentioning his heart and all. He blamed it on the sugar.

"Nox Lucerna," he added after a moment, and the room darkened to a black that, while not as complete as that in Spinner's End, was still unsettling—too much like his old room at the Dursley's, under the stairs. Tomorrow, he decided, he would find a better spell—a nightlight like the kind he'd seen in Muggle picture books as a child.

And tomorrow, the gifts would no doubt be joined by others, with more coming throughout the day, until either Snape's mood actually did improve or... well, Harry wasn't sure quite how it would all end, though he suspected it would involve some shouting on both their parts before it was over.

"Love you, Severus," Harry amended. He blamed that, too, on the biscuit. Asleep, Snape might be mistaken for handsome. Or... not handsome, but striking in some way or other that was something _approaching_ handsome by a circuitous route that took several wrong turns at his nose. Harry squinted and kissed the nose, suspecting it was a trick of the light and his own bad eyes playing tricks.

"The feeling is mutual, Potter. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Harry jumped at the sound of his voice and slapped him on the belly. "Arse. _You_ were supposed to _be_ asleep. Is this what you do every night? Pretend to be asleep while listening to me embarrass myself?"

"Yes, because it is not enough to listen to you embarrass yourself during the day."

"That's just—it's a breach of trust."

"Trust? I was a spy when _you_ were still stumbling around on all fours—instead of stumbling on two as you do today. You should not be so trusting."

"I—"

"As well, your Occlumency skills, while never more than adequate, have now become so weak, that, if I so desired, I could learn what led you to open my door whilst still naked and covered in semen stains at one in the morning on a schoolnight when anyone might be about—and someone clearly _was_ about, having left something which you brought _in_ from my doorstep."

"How'd you—"

"Even now, it continues to make a rustling sound that, were I to guess, I would say sounds very much like a bag of chocolate frogs."

"You're a very disturbing man, Snape. Stay out of my head."

"No hardship, as I prefer being in your body." Snape rolled over onto his front, so that his words were partially muffled by the pillow Harry was considering using to smother him. "And by now you _should_ know that dark chocolate bribes are more effective, though at the moment, Potter, you are well past the point at which any bribe might save you."

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but just then, the rustling sound stopped, replaced by a loud plastic crackle, the frogs having collectively leapt off the table in a gesture that Harry tried and failed not to take personally.

  


* * *

[i] Latin: As far as the word extends.

[ii] Latin: Naked, they lay together, man and man.

[iii] Latin: The time for love is not in the bedroom. 

  


—FIN—

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the folks at Con.txt 2006, for inspired discussion of all things Snape. 
> 
> And special thanks to bethbethbeth, for betaing, for not expecting Hamlet, for telling me where she got what I was saying and where she didn't, and for keeping me from getting lost down many a blind ginnel.
> 
> © 2006


End file.
